The Mullah and the Princess
by Jedi Knight Padme
Summary: Princess Zainab finds it amusing to challenge Mullah Khaled at council meetings, but she doesn't laugh when her father wants her to marry him! Turns out the Mullah isn't so thrilled, either..but something happens that neither of them expect!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story exists in no reality but the one in my head. 'Cuz however much I wish it weren't so, in those days there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that any woman, Sultan's daughter or not, would be sitting as part of the Shura Council. But whatever... here's the story, so read and review, peeps:)

* * *

The Shura Council of Salahhuddin was assembled. Bearded, robed men sat cross-legged on the rich, plush carpet that covered the dirt floor in a rough circle, some of them reading softly out of the Qurans they held in their hands, others sitting with their heads together, talking earnestly. All were waiting for the two who would fill the last empty spaces left in the circle.  
They didn't wait much longer. The door flap of the tent opened, and a man, tall, dark, bearded, and attired in a rich black _dishdasha_ embroidered with silver, ducked his head as he entered the tent.

"As-salaamu 'alaikum wa rahmatullaahi wa barakaatu," Salahhuddin greeted his men, his dark, kohled eyes scanning the faces of the men assembled. "Forgive our tardiness. There was a matter that caused a delay."  
His usage of the word 'our' referred to himself and to the slender figure that had entered the tent right behind him, swathed entirely in a loose black robe, face veiled. Salahhuddin's daughter. Zainab.  
Mullah Khaled frowned. He severely disapproved of the Sultan allowing – nay, bringing – his daughter to be a member of the Shura Council. But no matter how many times the mullah argued with Salahhuddin, trying to convince him that it was wrong to allow a women to not only observe but take part of matters best suited to men, the Sultan refused point-blank to forbid his daughter from joining the Council and participating actively. The mullah wondered, somewhat sulkily, if Salahhuddin did it simply to vex him.

Salahhuddin and his daughter, Zainab, settled themselves on the carpet; Salahhuddin reclining slightly against a pile of propped cushions, Zainab folding her gloved hands demurely while her eyes, so like her father's, swept over the men in attendance, pausing momentarily on Mullah Khaled before lowering her gaze. She well knew of the mullah's disapproval, and flaunted it outrageously, much to his infuriation.

"Bismillaahir-rahmaan ir-raheem," Salahhuddin's quiet but powerful voice filled the tent. "Innal-Hamdulillaah, nah-maduhu wa nasta'eenuhu wa nastaghfiruh…" "All praise is due to Allah…We praise Him and seek His help and forgiveness."  
After the opening du'aa (supplication), Salahhuddin sighed. "The Franks have attacked another caravan. They were led by Reynald de Chatillon and Guy de Lusignan. The peace is no longer threatened. It has been attacked. Now, the question is, what do we do?" "Attack!" many voices cried out in unison, Mullah Khaled the loudest. The other few Council members remained silent. Salahhuddin looked at them all, his gaze piercing.

"Truly?" he questioned. "If I may, Father?" The soft, clear voice was Zainab's. Salahhuddin inclined his head graciously. "Speak."  
The Sultan's daughter raised her head. "I do not think that we should be so swift to attack," she said , her veil fluttering as she spoke. "Have you contacted King Baldwin yet?"  
Salahhuddin shook his head. "First, I wish to know what my Council advises"  
"Then I advise care, and caution. Let us assess the situation. Would it be more beneficial to us to hold back rather than to attack? What would our actions mean to the Muslims of Jerusalem? If we attack, the Templars may take revenge on the Muslim citizens. We must remember them."

She fell silent. Mullah Khaled raised his voice. "Attack!" he cried. "Attack! Shall we sit still and do nothing while our brothers and sisters continue to be harassed and persecuted? Will we let the Christians continue to kill and maim? Are we to twiddle our thumbs in the name of peace and mercy? Chatillon and Lusignan have gone too far. Too many times have we let the opportunity to gain a stronger foothold slide, to let Baldwin deal with his men as he sees fit. Do you think the Frankish king will truly punish his own subjects? If he kept his word, Chatillon and Lusignan would not have attacked again! Retaliation is in order! It must be swift, and powerful! Let us show them what happens when they cross us!"

The men of the Council nodded in agreement. Several voiced their opinions, all in favour of attacking. Salahhuddin raised his hand. Everyone fell silent. "Is this what you wish?" he asked the Council. "Aye!"

It was unanimous, but for the Sultan's daughter. Salahhuddin turned to look at her.  
"Very well, then," she said. She sounded resigned. "Attack Kerak, the stronghold of Reynald de Chatillon. But send word to Baldwin first. Let us know of his thoughts and intentions. He is a good man, and I am loath that we do something that would weaken him further."  
Mullah Khaled scowled. "You are too fond of Baldwin. Keep in mind that he is a Christian, one of the enemy!"  
Zainab raised her head, and stared him in the eye, her own kohled eyes flashing. "He is a good man. Far better than Guy de Lusignan. The peace we have had could not have taken place without Baldwin. He may be an enemy, but he is an enemy I am proud to have. He is good, and noble. And humble," she added.  
That stung. Mullah Khaled knew all too well that she, and many others besides, considered him to be arrogant. He remained silent, glowering. Glancing up, he could have sworn that the Sultan's daughter was smirking at him behind her veil. He scowled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Well, here's chapter 2... It ends rather abruptly, 'cuz I wrote it spur-of-the-moment without much editing...**

**P.S. Thanks to Kerichi for coming up with a waaaaay better story summary!**

* * *

Striding through the corridors of his palace in Damascus, Salahhuddin smiled as he heard the shrieks of laughter coming from the harem courtyard. There was only one person who could be responsible for it - his daughter, Zainab.  
Sure enough, when he passed beneath the marble arches and entered the courtyard, the sight that greeted his eyes was a colourful one, in the literal and figurative sense of the word.  
Children were running around the courtyard, their bare feet pattering on the marble and stained green by crushed blades of grass, cloaks of rainbow hues streaming behind them as they sought to escape the lumbering figure in bright orange chasing them, roaring and growling and making the most ferocious noises. 

One tiny child, barely out of his diapers, stopped running and turned around to confront the orange monstrosity, waving a small wooden staff in the air.  
"Stop, monster!" he squeaked, "Stop, in God's name! I shall fight you!"  
The 'monster' stopped in its tracks, peering at the boy between the folds of red fabric swathed around its face. "So you shall fight me, eh, O Abdul-Aziz?" it growled.

The child Abdul-Aziz nodded determinedly, still wielding the staff with an air of authority.  
"Well," the monster pronounced, "I think that I shall EAT you!" With another roar, the monster swooped down on the boy, grabbed him, and began tickling Abdul-Aziz mercilessly, causing him to squeal and kick, and the two collapsed in a pile of arms, legs, and lots and lots of bright orange fabric.

Struggling upright, the mass of human and colourful cloth revealed not one, but two heads - Abdul-Aziz's tousle-haired one, and that of a young woman.  
Leaning against a pillar, Salahhudin smiled and called out, "As-salaamu 'alaikum!"  
Instantly, the crowd of children who had been cautiously making their way back to the young woman looked up, saw who it was, and as one barrelled across the courtyard to swarm the Sultan with cries of "Ammu!" (Uncle!) and "Jaddi!" (Grandfather!)

Smiling broadly, Salahhuddin knelt to hug them, greeting them as happily as they did him.  
Once the children had finished crawling all over him, shamelessly exploring his pockets for any hidden surprises, Salahhuddin stood back up, this time to welcome the young woman.

"Baba!" she exclaimed happily, her face lighting up, and she surged to her feet and rushed towards him no less enthusiastically than had the children.

"Yaa habibiti Zainab," he greeted her fondly as he embraced her. "Did I interrupt your games?"

"Not at all," she assured him, ignoring Abdul-Aziz's squeal of "Yes!"

Salahhuddin smiled fondly at his impertinent nephew. "Good," he told Zainab, "Because I have something to tell you."  
Curious, she followed her father to the large marble fountain that sat in the middle of the courtyard, and seated herself next to him on the wide ledge.  
Salahhuddin tipped his face upwards, eyes closed, letting the spray from the fountain cool his face. Zainab knew that her father would speak only when he was ready, so, despite her curiousity, she didn't urge him.

"My daughter," he said finally, "There is something I have been thinking about, and I have talked to your mother and she agrees with me. It is time that we do something about it."

"About what?" Zainab asked, perplexed.

"It is time for you to get married."

Zainab's jaw dropped. "What!"

"Yes," her father said firmly. "And I have someone in mind."

Zainab looked suspicious. "Who?" she demanded.

Salahhuddin smiled serenely. "Mullah Khaled."

Zainab shrieked and fell over backward into the fountain.


	3. Chapter 3

Mullah Khaled strode through the camp, wondering why Salahhuddin had called him at this time of the night. It was twilight, and the hustle and bustle of soldiers rushing about their business had died down as they prepared to retire for the night. The mullah himself had been getting ready to rest when the Sutlan's summons had arrived.

Khaled stopped at the entrance of Salahhuddin's tent, where two soldiers stood guard. "Tell the Sultan that I have arrived," he commanded, and one of the men ducked into the tent, announcing the mullah's arrival.  
"Enter." Salahhuddin's voice was strong enough that Khaled did not need the returning soldier to nod in affirmation.

Entering the tent, the young man paused. Despite it being the resting place of the Sultan, it was simply furnished - a plain carpet spread over the ground, a prayer mat neatly spread out in one corner, a low sofa, and in the back, partly hidden in shadow, was what seemed to be a bed. The only item of value and beauty was the large silver lamp which illuminated the tent, throwing dancing rays of light through the delicate latticework behind which the flame flickered and swayed liked a seductive bellydancer.

Sultan Salahhuddin himself was seated upon the sofa, reclining slightly. The older man was dressed in a simple robe, his kingly garments and glittering armour set aside for the evening. His face, framed by wavy locks of hair streaked with grey but not yet entirely white, seemed careworn, but there was a strength behind the weariness, most evident in the king's flashing dark eyes, that reassured the mullah, who moved forward and knelt to grasp the Sultan's hand.

"_As-salaamu 'alaikum wa rahmatullaahi wa barakaatu,_" Salahhuddin greeted Mullah Khaled. "How are you this evening?"  
"By the grace of God, I feel well," the mullah responded. "What matter of yours required my presence?"  
Salahhuddin smiled. "You never fail to get to the bottom of the matter," he said dryly. "But come, sit. Will you have refreshments?" He indicated a tray of sweets and a slender pitcher, from which issued the aromatic steam of _Shai_, the sweet Arabic tea that the Sultan favoured.

Khaled declined. "Very well," said the Sultan, "Then hear and attend me." He paused for a moment, his dark eyes thoughtful as he surveyed the young man before him. "Mullah Khaled, you know that you are one of my most trusted advisors. Hot-headed, admittedly, and you have a tendency to contradict me, but that is to be expected from one such as you, and as a general rule you do a commendable job. Yet I have not yet rewarded you for your loyalty."

Khaled frowned. What was the Sultan getting at?

"Therefore I have thought long and hard," Salahhuddin continued, "and I believe I have reached a decision. You shall have in marriage my youngest daughter. Zainab." He fell silent, keenly observing the mullah's reaction.  
Khaled stared at the Sultan, stunned. "Marriage?" he finally managed to choke out. "To... Zainab?"  
The corners of Salahhuddin's mouth twitched, but he managed to keep a relatively straight face. "Indeed. It is, I believe, an excellent arrangement. Zainab is the only one of my daughters unmarried; you, too, are unmarried. Furthermore, you share a keen interest in politics and religion. Both of you are hot-headed and a little too strong-willed. And unlike as in many marriage arrangements, the two of you are already acquainted, so there will be less need for the various formalities. This marriage will, I think, be beneficial to you both."

Khaled felt as though his jaw was going to drop, but he clenched his teeth. Was the Sultan getting senile in his old age? The Mullah and the princess clashed on almost every subject ever brought up in Council meetings, much to the exhasperation of the other members of the Shura.  
Salahhuddin's next words broke through the Mullah's stream of thought. "I am weary now," said the king, shifting on the low sofa he was seated on, "So we will discuss the details at another time, _insha'Allah_." Salahhuddin closed his eyes, then opened them again and nodded a dismissal at Mullah Khaled. "_Was-salaamu 'alaikum wa rahmatullaahi wa barakaatu_."

In a daze, the mullah rose and walked out of the tent into the cool evening air. Unseeing, as though in a trance, he slowly made his way back to his own tent, with the thought, "I'mgoingtomarrytheSultan'sdaughter, I'mgoingtobeMARRYINGHER!" repeating over and over in his head. Entering the tent, he collapsed onto a pile of cushions, startling the man who was oiling his scabbard. Tall, lean and with an air of quiet amusement about him, Nasser was one of the great commanders of Salahhuddin's legendary army - and Mullah Khaled's closest friend.

Now, he set aside his scabbard and peered at his friend. "What is wrong?" he asked, concerned. "Is something wrong with our master?" "I'mgoingtobemarryingtheSultan'sdaughter, I'mgoingtobeMARRYINGHER!" The words came spilling out of the Mullah's mouth unbidden.

"What?"

Khaled nodded silently. "You're telling me that our master Salahhuddin has decided to marry you to his daughter?"

Khaled nodded again.

"Which one?"

The mullah glared at his friend. "Who do you think?" he snapped.

Understanding dawned on Nasser's face. "Ah..." he said slowly. "So it is Zainab."

"Who else?" Khaled raked a hand through his curls, agitated. "He said that he wanted to reward me for my services," he explained. "And so... I am to marry _her_." He grimaced. "Some reward"

"Come now," said Nasser diplomatically. "She isn't that bad. She is intelligent, eloquent, knowledgeable of the Qur'an. Much like you, actually," he said, raising his eyebrows at the Mullah.

"She is a disgrace!" Khaled exclaimed. "What kind of woman sits amongst men, as though she is one of them? It is breaking with tradition! Women have their place, and it is not in the stateroom! It is utterly disrespectful and... and... it's just _wrong_!" he concluded angrily, raking his hand through his hair.

"I see nothing wrong with it," Nasser said mildly. "Yes, it is against tradition... but sometimes it is good to break tradition, no? If the Sultan sees it fit to permit his daughter to attend, then it is up to him, is it not? Besides, it is not as though she acts immorally in any way. She is fully veiled, and abides by the law."

The Mullah glared at him. "Even so!" he insisted. "It is not right"

"Nothing except tradition says so," Nasser said calmly. "You are the mullah; tell me where Islam says that a woman may not participate in activities of state."

Khaled looked as though he was going to have a fit. "Gah!" he burst out angrily. "This will never work! I have to tell Salahhuddin to call it off!"

Nasser shook his head. "That's not a very good idea," he said. "Think about it - our master Salahhuddin never gives gifts freely. You have to truly earn his esteem. And for him to be giving you his daughter in marriage? Khaled, that is truly saying something."

The mullah stared at his friend. He hadn't thought about it like that. And his brain finally started absorbing the reality of the situation, he realized with dismay that what Nasser said was true. There was no way that he could tell Salahhuddin to retract the offer. He was going to be marrying _her_... Zainab... and there was no way out of it.

Mullah Khaled groaned and buried his heads into his hands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Well, this chapter is different from the previous ones... it's got a different type of mood altogether. But I like it. Tell me if you like it, too!**

* * *

Zainab sat stiffly, her hands gripping each other tightly. She was seated on a rich Persian rug, spread over the golden sand, and scattered with beautifully embroidered cushions. Female servants bustled around her, bringing trays of sweets, steaming silver pitchers of qahwa and shai, bowls of icy water, and goblets of cold fruit juices from the pavilion where food was prepared.

Today was the day that she and Mullah Khaled were to 'meet' each other - a formal tradition in which the bride- and groom-to-be came face-to-face with each other for the first time. The woman would be unveiled, for now that they were engaged, the man was allowed to look upon his future bride's face.  
At the moment, the princess kept her veil, determined not to reveal herself until she absolutely had to. The mullah had not yet arrived; apparently he was busy elsewhere. Busy trying to escape this insane arrangement, Zainab thought dourly, and wished that she could just get up and walk away, leaving this madness behind her.  
She wondered what Mullah Khaled thought of the proposed marriage. Since the Sultan had informed them both of the arrangement, there had been no council meetings, and they had not been in each others' presence. Which meant, the princess thought dryly, that today's meeting would _very_ interesting indeed.

She lifted her gaze to scan the scene before her. Mullah Khaled did not appear. Unconciously, Zainab r elaxed a little. She still could not imagine what possessed her father to arrange the marriage between herself and the mullah. Oh, there were some political advantages, but on a personal level, did Salahhuddin think that such a marriage could really work? Zainab certainly didn't think so. She'd known the mullah long enough.  
A thought occurred to Zainab that made her frown. _Did_ she really know Khaled? The only time they were ever together was during council meetings, where they clashed on almost every subject. Despite the similarity of their personalities - both were passionate and stubborn - the opinions they held were drastically different. Particularly on the subject of women's involvements in politics. Nevertheless, that was the only situation they were together in. She couldn't remember a single time that they'd met or talked - or rather, argued - in a place other than her father's council room. She was a woman, and a princess; he was a man, and a mullah. They kept to their own sides of camp, went about their own duties - which did not require the other's presence.

Suddenly, an image flashed before her mind's eye. Not so much an image, as a sudden rush of emotion, a medley of scent and sight and feeling. A small girl-child. A dark, solemn boy, older by some years. A fig - soft, deliciously sweet, a bite taken out of it, revealing a luscious purple-red interior. A smile, so sudden it's just a flash. A... kiss?  
She closed her eyes, concentrated, brow furrowed. The flashes stopped, images fading... and then reappeared, this time as a whole rather than broken fragments. She viewed the mental scene through the eyes of the girl-child... small, perhaps only four or five years old. Small, but mischievous, and recently having escaped from the repressive clutches of her nurse.

There was a boy, and a horse. A big boy, a considerably larger horse. Both dark in colour but while the horse's eyes were serene and tranquil, the boy was solemn, looking down at the girl-child unsmilingly.  
She toddled up to him, gazed up at him with big brown eyes. His gaze flicked away from her, searching for something, or someone, behind her. Absently, he put a hand into his pocket, withdrew a fig, lifted it to his mouth. About to take a bite, something stopped him. He looked back at the girl-child. Her eyes had widened, chubby face full of childish longing. She took a step forward, eyes trained on the soft fruit he held in his hand. He looked at the fruit, then again at the girl, uncertainly. The little girl looked hopeful, lifted her eyes from the fruit to the boy's face, and silently begged him for it using every ounce of childish charm she could muster. She knew from experience that no one could resist the Look - not even the boy. Sure enough, he knelt down before her, awkwardly offering her the fig. Triumphantly, she snatched it out of his hand and bit into it, tiny teeth tearing through the skin and sinking into the juicy crimson flesh. Her mouth filled with the succulent fruit, she gave a little sigh of happiness - and then noticed that the boy was still crouching in front of her, now watching her eat his gift almost regretfully. She paused, then, still clutching the half-eaten fig, toddled forward and threw her small chubby arms around him, bestowing a sweet, sticky kiss onto his cheek. Startled, he jerked back and she almost fell over, but he recovered quickly and steadied her. For a moment he looked bewildered, and then broke into a smile that lit up his face and warmed his eyes.

"Khaled."

The name came suddenly, unbidden, and Zainab's eyes flew open in shock, only to find herself staring into those same dark eyes.  
Khaled's.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author Note: **_Sorry for the short chapter and the looooong delay in update! But I hope you like this chapter anyway... please review!_

Zainab's stomach performed a triple-flip as she gazed into the mullah's dark eyes. Whilst she had been lost in her strange dream-memory, he had arrived, accompanied by her father the Sultan and Nasser.

The three of them stood before her now, Khaled directly opposite her, Salahhuddin and Nasser standing slightly behind. Khaled was dressed in his customary attire - flowing black robes emblazoned in silver with the Islamic testimony of faith, the shahada. He gazed down at her, his handsome face unreadable.

Suddenly realizing that she was staring at Khaled and that her father had his eyebrows raised at her, she jerked her eyes away from the mullah, flushing with embarassment.

"Peace be upon you," she greeted them, fighting to keep her voice steady and praying that Khaled had not noticed her staring at him. "Please, be seated." She indicated the cushions, and the men seated themselves. Salahhuddin sat at an angle from which he could observe both his daughter and the mullah; Khaled reclined against a cushion almost directly opposite the princess; and Nasser seated himself almost on the edge of the grand Persian carpet, looking uncomfortable.

Well-trained, the servants appeared unbidden, offering the princess and her guests refreshments. Zainab refused - her stomach threatened to rebel against her if she dared eat anything at this moment - but the men accepted drinks and sweets.

As they ate, the princess gazed at Khalid through her lashes. He looked so... confident, sure of himself, slightly arrogant, as he always did; totally unlike the trembling, nervous pile of jelly she felt like.

No one said anything, and the silence made her want to scream. Biting her lip, she reached for the closest plate of fruit - and at the same moment that her fingers settled on a fig, they brushed against something else... someone's hand. Khaled's hand, which was reaching for the same piece of fruit.

Time stopped, and that split second stretched into an eternity as her gaze lifted in shock and looked straight into Khaled's eyes. Their hands were still touching, the tips of their fingers brushing like butterfly kisses.

And then Khaled's hand moved, curled around the fig, and gently deposited it into the princess's palm. Her fingers closed around it, almost involuntarily; the mullah settled back into his seat and Zainab leaned back against her cushion, dazed. Biting into the fig, her mouth flooded with a delicious sweetness that, combined with the irony, threatened to overwhelm her.

**A/N: Next chapter: The princess unveils, and Khaled falls in love! (At least, let's hope so!)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Yes, I know. It's literally been years since I worked on this story. Four days (nights?) straight of insomnia, however, can do things to you. In my case, make me open up an old story and be struck with inspiration. Woohoo! Chapter six has been removed and re-posted with an additional scene at the end. Please read and review... if you even remember me!

---

It was time.

When Salahhuddin gave an almost imperceptible nod to his daughter, the princess knew that now was the moment that would decide her future. Looking upon her face, Mullah Khaled would be given the choice of whether to accept her as his bride... or not.

She sat up straight, stiffening her spine and taking in a deep breath, turning slightly so that she faced the mullah straight on.

Her hands trembled as she slowly touched her veil, fingers fumbling as she undid the intricate gold clasp. Then, her heart thudding, she let her fingers, and her veil, fall away from her face.

Khaled's breath caught in his throat as he gazed upon the unveiled face of his bride-to-be. She was... there was no other word for it, except *beautiful*.

She looked like a true Arabian princess, daughter of the desert, some distant descendant of Cleopatra. Her skin, the deep honey golden-bronze of sand dunes at sunset. Dark eyes were lined with kohl, and long lashes swept against her skin as she lowered her eyes. Her cheekbones were high and prominent, her chin determined, her mouth soft.  
With a jolt, he realized that for all the times the time they had spent together in Council, arguing matters of state, he had never looked farther than the flashing eyes and sharp tongue that frustrated and irritated him.  
And now, he wondered if he could ever think of the princess the same way again. No longer a stubborn, foolish girl who dared to break tradition and involve herself in affairs that were not her concern, but a beautiful young woman who had effectively rendered him speechless - something which, as all those who knew him would testify, was truly an amazing feat.

In answer to the unspoken question in Salahhuddin's gaze, Mullah Khaled nodded.

...

The princess was in her tent, sitting cross-legged on her bed while Maarya, a Coptic girl who was both Zainab's slave and friend, tidied things up and smilingly listened to her recount the day's events.  
The princess's eyes sparkled, and she hugged her knees to her chest as she described the look on Khaled's face when she had removed her veil. "He looked... so different in that moment, like I've never seen him before."

She lifted a hand, wonderingly, to her face. She'd never really thought of herself as beautiful, never really given much thought to her looks besides the usual feminine care. She picked up the polished silver mirror that lay next to her on the bed, and examined her reflection. Try as she might, however, she saw nothing new, nothing that could possibly cause the reaction that Khaled had. She wondered what he saw in her that she didn't see.

Later, lying in bed in the darkness, she pictured Khaled in her mind's eye, recalled once more the butterfly kiss of their fingers and the sweet, sweet taste of the fig. She shivered, an inexplicable feeling of delight and anticipation of the coming days stealing over her.

"So, how did it go?" Nasser greeted his friend as the Mullah entered the tent.  
"She hates me," Khaled said glumly. Nasser raised an eyebrow. "Really?"  
"Of course!" Khaled exclaimed, collapsing onto a pile of cushions and reaching for Nasser's plate of sweets. "You just had to see the expression on her face! After the first glance, she barely looked at me!"

Nasser smiled. "Ah," he said. "You got to look at her unveiled?" He grinned wickedly. "Did you like what you saw?"  
Khaled flushed and averted his eyes. Nasser's grin grew wider. "I take that as a yes."  
The Mullah suddenly seemed to find the arrangement of honey-dipped figs fascinating. "Come now, tell me!" Nasser needled his companion.  
"She is... tall," Khaled mumbled. Nasser punched him in the arm.  
"We know that already," he reminded Khaled. "We see her at the Council, remember?"  
"Honey golden skin, like the sand dunes at sunset. Dark eyes that flash like lightning. Prominent cheekbones and determined chin. A sharp tongue, but a soft mouth." Khaled eyes had stopped concentrating on the plate of sweets and now had a look in them that was suspiciously dreamy.

Nasser stared at him, then burst into laughter. "Glory be to God!" he choked out, slapping his thigh. "The Sultan's daughter has turned our Mullah into a poet!"  
"You know," he said, clapping the mortified Khaled on the back, "I think you'll do just fine with her. Just fine!"  
He fell over laughing again at the look on his friend's face, then, calming down, said, "I might be able to help you."  
Khaled glared at Nasser suspiciously. "How?" he demanded.  
Nasser resisted the urge to giggle and said, "Oh, you know... soften her attitude a little. By the time you're married she might be able to look at you without feeling the need to whack you on the head with a pot." He winced and rubbed his own head - obviously, he'd had some experience in that field.  
"And how would YOU know about that?" the Mullah asked, raising his eyebrows. "I'm married," Nasser reminded him. "With two wives."  
Khaled sighed. "Fine. Tell me how I can make her stop looking at me as though I were a scorpion she'd love to grind under her heel." He reached for a cup of qahwa, the aroma of the strong Arabian coffee soothing his frazzled nerves somewhat.  
Nasser grinned. "It is called... the Fine Art of Wooing Women."

Khaled choked and Nasser got a faceful of spit and scalding qahwa.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** New chapter. I honestly never believed this would happen. It has. Reward me with a read and review!

---

The next day, however, the anticipation Zainab had savoured in the darkness of the night and the shadows of her dreams had vanished - in fact, she refused to leave her tent for fear that she'd come across the mullah. So, restless, she paced around her tent, unable to sit down or concentrate on anything. When Maarya gave her a piece of cloth to embroider to take her mind off Khaled, her hands shook and the embroidery swiftly became a tangled mess of colourful thread. Her attempt at reading suffered similarly - her eyes passed over the Arabic words absently, unable to appreciate the beauty of the calligraphy nor comprehend the complex, layered meanings.

Eventually, even patient Maarya - she who could deal with the princess in all her stubborn, passionate moods - got sick of Zainab's agitated moodiness, and ordered her out of the tent. The princess looked stricken. "But... but what if I see... _him_?" she blurted out.  
"You will be veiled," Maarya pointed out. "How will he tell the difference between you and every other robed and veiled woman in this camp?"  
The princess looked relieved. "Well then... I think I shall take Najma for a ride," she decided, referring to her mare.  
"Good," said Maarya, pleased that the princess would be out of her way. "But do not be too long. It is late afternoon already; sunset will come quickly."

Relatively cheered up, Zainab slipped on a long, loose black robe over her dress, and expertly wound a length of similar fabric around her head, covering her hair and pulling the end of it over the bottom half of her face. Thus veiled, she emerged into the bustling open space of the camp, fervently glad that the war camp was split into two - one half for the women, the other half for the men. Her relief, however, was short-lived when she remembered that the stables, where her horse and those of everyone else, were located right between the two sections of the camp, and were open for both men and women.

Hoping against hope that she wouldn't see Khaled anywhere, she lowered her head and picked up her pace.

Zainab entered the stables, lifting her head and breathing in the unique smells of horse and leather - many found the combination of scents unpleasant and overwhelming, but she liked it. It reminded her of the days of her childhood, of when her father gave her the gift of her first mare and taught her everything she need to know about horses and the care required in their upkeep. Despite being raised within the glorious palaces of Egypt and Damascus, the blood of her bedouin ancestors still rushed strongly in her veins - and with that blood came a love for all things equestrian.

Anonymous and unrecognizable as the Sultan's daughter in her simple veil, the princess made her way through the stables, stopping at different stalls to greet the various horses she was familiar with. There was her father's stallion, well-named Malik - the King - for he resembled his master in almost every way - the great black-and-silver steed was larger than almost any other horse in the entire camp, his magnificent strength evident in the muscles that rippled under his smooth hide; yet his large eyes seemed filled with wisdom and even twinkled with humour. Stabled nearby were the warhorses of Salahhuddin's army, big beasts all of them, yet none matched the stallion king.  
The mares were located at the extreme end of the stable, to keep them out of the way of the hot-blooded stallions. Most of these mares belonged to the ladies of the camp - Zainab's aunt, the princess Badreyah, also had a fondness for horses, and many of her attendants rode on similar steeds. Zainab's own mare, Najma, was amongst them.

The princess finally arrived at her destination: the stall of a bronze-haired mare, long-limbed and slender of neck, yet swift in speed and powerful of muscle. Najma, Star of the desert and Zainab's most precious possesion - although, upon reflection, she realized that Najma was not so much a possession as a companion. In a way, they were almost sisters - Najma's sire was Malik, Salahuddin's own stallion, and her dame was a member of the Sultan's great brooding mare harem. Given to a young princess Zainab while still a colt, the mare and the girl bonded immediately - and it was a running joke in the royal family that the two were taught their manners together as well. Sometimes Najma displayed more princess-like qualities than Zainab did; and Zainab was often teased by her older brothers for acting like an unbroken foal.

Leaning over the stall door, Zainab darted a glance around the stable, found no one nearby, and risked removing the end of her scarf which covered her face. Nickering happily, Najma's warm brown eyes seemed to return the princess's smile, which widened into a grin when the mare knowingly nudged her in the chest, seeking the lumps of sugar which Zainab brought regularly. As Najma nibbled on the sugar, Zainab threw her arms around the mare's neck and breathed in her horsey smell. "Ah, Najma!" she exclaimed, pressing her cheek against the horse's smooth neck, "So much has happened these past days... you'll never believe it... Mullah Khaled and I are to be wed!"

The princess could've sworn that the look in Najma's eyes was one of incredulity, and she nodded vigorously in response. "Yes... I can hardly believe it myself. Come, let us ride... I have too much pent up energy and can scarcely contain myself." In a very un-princess-like movement, Zainab vaulted over the low stall door and began to saddle up her mare. Within moments, the princess was mounted, and horse and rider cantered out of the camp and into the surrounding desert, picking up speed until they were little more than a cloud of dust on the horizon.

* * *

Hooves pounded the rocky sand and the spirit of the princess, of the desert, and of the mare melded and soared: unspoken, unwritten poetry - the glory of the gallop. For Princess Zainab, these moments that lasted an eternity; this was all, the very peak of existence. There was no thought of Khaled, his dark eyes and curly hair; of their hands touching; of figs and sweet kisses; of a future in which all of it would be there, inescapable. There was just this. Princess. Mare. Desert.

Najma's strides shortened, slowed. The princess lifted her head, and her spirit left the mare and the desert to return to her, so that she became aware of her heart thudding in time with Najma's heaving breaths; of the breeze blowing at her face gently, lifting her scarf and swirling the length of silk around her. She tipped her face upwards, towards the warmth of the late afternoon sun, feeling its rays wash over her like molten gold...

"You ride well, for a woman."

The voice startled her, and Zainab jerked the reins to see who it was. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw Mullah Khaled, alone and astride his own stallion - and so close that she wondered how he'd gotten there without her noticing.  
She stared at him for a full moment before remembering that she was unveiled, and clutched at the end of her fluttering scarf, clumsily trying to veil herself. The fabric escaped from her fumbling fingers, and she glanced up desperately to see how the mullah was reacting. An odd expression on his face, he made a gesture - almost involuntary - that she need not cover her face - and then, realizing what he'd just done, he flushed.  
She, too, blushed, but was inordinately pleased... and did _not_ cover her face, letting the extra length of fabric remain draped over her shoulder. She sat up straighter on Najma, balancing as Najma did a little dance under her before settling down in the presence of the stranger.

In the awkward silence, the princess gazed at the mullah, and he uncomfortably returned her glance.  
Finally, Khaled cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence. "I... wanted to apologize. For... my behaviour before. I have been... harsh... towards you."  
Shocked, Zainab gave up polite pretenses and stared at him openly. And then, as what he'd just said sunk into her brain, the overwhelming urge to laugh came over - but she managed to bite back the giggles just in time.  
Instead, she inclined her head gracefully and responded, "I accept." She paused a moment before adding, for good measure, "I, too, apologize... I have not always behaved as I ought to." It was true - her father had sometimes rebuked her for the way she spoke in council, particularly when she and the mullah were debating a particularly sticky issue. In her annoyance at the mullah, she would usually brush off the scoldings, but reflecting on it later on she had to admit to herself that her aggressive attitude wasn't doing much to endear herself to Khaled.

The silence stretched between them again, and once more Khaled attempted to break it. "Are you riding back to the camp?" he asked, and Zainab nodded, gentle pressing her heels against Najma's sides to get the mare moving. Khaled and his stallion fell into stride beside them, and for a few minutes they rode together in silence.  
"You ride well, for a woman," the mullah said after a while, echoing his earlier statement.

The princess hesitated a moment before answering. "Yes... my father taught me how to ride when I was very young." She smiled a little at a memory: she was perhaps four or five years old, astride a huge war horse whose back was so wide her little legs could barely straddle it... bouncing up and down in excitement, she would have fallen off were it not for her father's strong arms holding her steady. "Let's ride, Baba, let's ride!" she squealed with impatience, and tugged at the reins which he held in his hands, and then they were off: the horse's hooves thundering against the turf, the wind whipping her hair around her so that she could barely see, the solid warmth of her father behind her, and the delirious feeling of almost-flying.

Khaled's voice drew her out of her reverie. "We have arrived. You may want to... cover yourself," he added, indicating awkwardly at the extra length of fabric that fluttered over the princess's shoulder.  
Zainab glanced up to affirm that the peaks of the tent city were indeed appearing before them, and allowed her gaze to return to his face - in time to find that his own eyes lingered upon her. There was something in that look that sent a flash of heat through her, a delicious quiver along her spine and dancing in her stomach. Clumsily, she groped for her veil and drew it across her face, rendering herself hidden and anonymous once more.  
She looked back at the mullah, but now his gaze was properly averted and he stared ahead at the nearing camp, an unfathomable expression on his face. As he shifted on his horse, about to press his heels against its flanks, he inclined his head towards her. "It was... pleasant... to see you again." His voice was odd, rather strained, and he straightened up swiftly to overcome his embarassment. "Peace be upon you," he said curtly, and with a flick of the reins, surged off before she could answer.

Gazing after him in wonder, tingling all over, Zainab rode back to the camp in a daze.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **You lucky things, you! Another night of insomnia, another chapter... please do let me know if my writing quality is going down or the tone of the story/ characters seems to be 'off.'

* * *

As Najma's hooves delicately picked their way through the bustling hodge podge of tents, people, animals, and dust, a woman's voice hailed Zainab. Pulling on the reins, slightly put out at having her daydreams disturbed, the princess looked down to see a female servant emerging from a close by tent and beckoning towards her.  
"The Princess Badreya wishes to see you," the woman informed her, indicating towards the tent. Looking up again, Zainab noted that the elegantly swathed pavilion, its interior concealed by luscious fluttering silks, did indeed belong to her aunt. Sighing, she dismounted and handed Najma's reins to the servant, then ducked through the entrance of the tent.

Zainab paused as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the change of lighting inside the tent, taking in the crimson glow of the silk hangings as another servant lit silver lamps to increase the illumination. The cheerful flames brightened the tent, revealing the luxurious boudouir and its accessories. Rich Persian rugs covered the desert sands beneath, topped with comfortable low sofas dotted with embroidered cushions. It was upon one of these sofas that Zainab found her aunt.

Badreya, Ameera of Damascus, younger sister of Sultan Salahhuddin and widow of one of the most powerful viziers of the Ayyoubi rulership, reclined gracefully against a pile of cushions, book in hand. For a woman well into her fifties, she had aged well and was still striking to look at - her strong facial features mirrored those of her brother's, though softened with femininity. Unveiled as she was now, her chestnut hair boasted few greying locks, and her hazel eyes danced with humour and wisdom.

"_Marhaban biki_, ya Zainab!" she greeted her niece, stretching out an aged but still graceful hand out in greeting. "And where has my lovely niece been hiding? Or should I say, riding," she corrected, wrinkling her nose at the distinctly horsey smell emanating from the younger princess's now-dusty robes. At the wave of her hand, her servant stepped forward with incense, hurrying forward to waft the aromatic smoke around the smelly royal. "Busy daydreaming of your handsome betrothed?" she added teasingly, and Zainab groaned.

"Baba told you?" she asked, ignoring the incense-waving servant and plopping herself onto another sofa.  
"Of course!" Princess Badreya waved her hand airily. "You do know how much your father adores his younger sister... actually, he spoke to me about the proposal before he told you two about it. I approved, of course."  
Zainab gazed at her aunt in dismay. "You approve?!"

Badreya looked down her nose at her niece in mock haughtiness. "Of course I do," she lectured. "It is a fine arrangement. What better way to appease the grumbling religious men than to have their very spokesman wed to the Sultan's daughter? And really, my dear," she added with a twinkle in her eye, "You really can't say that you find him unappealing... on a physical level, you know. He's not that much older than you, really, and I must say, he looks *quite* fine. I personally haven't noticed any other men in your father's court who so dashingly fill all the requirements of 'tall, dark, and handsome.' " She grinned, rather wickedly for someone supposed to be so respectable.  
Zainab prayed that the sudden heat in her cheeks was unnoticeable in the candlelight, and grimaced. "Yes, well, there are other things besides looks, you know," she informed her aunt archly. "There is always the matter of personalities and compatibility and so on."

Badreya raised an eyebrow. "Now that's a new one... having a youngling lecturing _me_ on what matters beyond looks when it comes to issues of men and women!" she remarked dryly. "My dear, rest assured that I am quite well acquainted with matters of marriage, on both political and personal levels. I, too, was a Sultan's daughter, and we both know that an advantageous marriage is part and parcel of the role. Do not be too crushed, my girl... it may seem unbearable now, especially with the history that you two have, but you will see - as I did - that though you may seem to clash, eventually you two will wear out each other's rough spots and smooth things over. The time together that marriage will give you will lead you to learn many things." The older princess reached out to squeeze her niece's hand. "You will even come to love him," she said gently. "Sooner or later, it will happen. Do not let your politics get in the way of your personal happiness, my dear. It is hard, I know, for I was as wilfull in my youth as you are now, but you will find that some things are not worth fighting so hard over, and that compromise is not so bad." She settled back into her cushions and closed her eyes.

"Now off you go, my girl. Freshen up and do change out of those awful robes - I want you and your father to dine with me tonight, and I will not appreciate the smell of horse ruining my appetite."  
"Yes, aunty," Zainab murmured, not really paying attention to the rebuke as she rose and bent to kiss her aunt on the cheek in farewell.

Badreya's lecture echoing in her ears, Princess Zainab made her way back to her tent, heart and mind atumble with contradicting thoughts and emotions. It appeared that she had yet another sleepless night ahead of her.

...

Dismounting from his mount with a practiced leap, Mullah Khaled strode through the camp and to the stables swiftly, deeply disturbed and unsettled. The ride in the desert had not been the soothing of his soul that he craved. No indeed... it was quite the opposite. Even now his eyes flicked upwards, scanning absent-mindedly through the crowd for a face that, logically, he knew would be hidden behind light folds of dark silk - a face that had been hidden to _him_, up until recently. Perhaps, he thought with a hint of dourness, it had been better that way.

He shook his head at himself irritably. He was furious at himself, at his own lack of control, at how swiftly he had been thrown off his guard and putting his own piety into danger. Even now he could not quite believe the reality of the encounter that had taken place. Truly, what had he been thinking? The moment he'd seen her in the distance, identified the dark figure upon the dancing mare as the princess - which other woman in the camp would have been audacious enough to ride in the desert alone, with no escort? - he should have shut his eyes, turned his horse the other way, and galloped off. Instead, he had allowed the other rider's steed to draw closer, the wild gallop slowing to a canter that let him see the princess's face clearly. She had unveiled herself and her head was thrown back, eyes shut and an expression of pure dreamy rapture on her lovely face. He had never seen anything quite so amazing. Unbidden, a verse of the Qur'an came to his lips and in the deep, haunting voice that led the faithful in prayer every day, he whispered to himself. "_And their countenance shall be that of pearls and rubies..." _It was the verse that referred to the unearthly women of Paradise, the _Hoor al-'Ayn_. And yet he was quite sure that even the heavenly handmaidens of the believers could not be quite so beautiful as the very earthly woman before him.

Khaled winced as he recalled his actions and felt like mentally slapping himself. Good God, he was treading dangerously close to blasphemy! Perhaps he was going mad. Maybe it was the heat. Or the stress of the ongoing war and the ever-growing tensions of politics. He suppressed a groan at the memory of what had happened next.

Again, what had possessed him to call out to her? Nor was it a particularly intelligent comment, he remembered. Some idiotic remark about her riding. Then, to inquire about her destination, and worse yet, to ride with her - next to her, not even ahead of her, as was proper - and to talk! To apologize about his past behaviour! His behaviour was inexcusable. Had he witnessed such a thing from anyone else in his congregation, he would have been disapproving enough, for all knew that no unmarried man and woman could meet in seclusion. It could only lead to something terrible, to shame and sin. How much worse was it, then, that _he_, the very man whose duty it was to keep the other believers strong, could be so very weak and commit such an error? How could God, how could *he* accept himself in that position?

Passing a weary hand over his brow, the mullah felt deeply distraught. Khaled's love for his religion ran deep and true, finding in God and the Qur'an a strong comfort and guide towards which he could channel the restless energy that coursed in his heart and blood. He strove hard to learn, to teach, to guide himself and his Muslim brethren to what was the only path to victory in this world and the Next. He demanded perfection, or something close to it, first from himself and then from others. It was, Nasser had commented before, a flaw in what was otherwise a commendable goal. Striving hard for eternal salvation and accepting little in the way of personal failures made Khaled somewhat too rigid on both himself and others, overcompensating in his zealousness.

Reaching his tent, the mullah gratefully entered the cool shadows and stretched out on his low bed, still thinking on the event that had transpired. A low mewing at his feet informed him of the presence of the stray kitten that had mysteriously chosen to adopt him, and with a sigh he gathered the warm mass of fur and twitching whiskers into his arms. He bent his head and silently prayed for God to keep him on the straight path.

...

Dusk. The magical moments of betwixt and between, after the passing of the fiery sun into the cooler waters of night sky. Trailing wisps of crimson and gold mingled with purple velvet in the west while the soothing glow of a pregnant crescent moon caressed sand dunes and rough hills.

The army of Salahhuddin was assembled for the after-sunset Maghrib prayer. Hundreds upon hundreds of men, from the great Sultan of Syria himself to every last general, officer, noble, common soldier and slave, stood in seemingly endless rows, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot. Behind them, another vast congregation of womenfolk, cool breezes flirting with their robes as they too came close together in sisterhood. Faces and limbs shining with moisture from ablution, the mighty force that conquered and united half the Muslim world and sought to free the other half stood in humbleness and purity, laying bare their souls to God All-Mighty. Before them all stood one man on a simple woven mat, his black robes whispering around him, the stray end of his turban teasing dark curls that escaped the cloth wrapping. Raising his hands to his shoulders, breathing in the scent of God's Mercy, Mullah Khaled's voice called out to the desert, to the believers, and to God Himself: "_Allahu akbar_." God is the Greatest.

In a voice that put all singers to shame, in hauntingly beautiful tones, Khaled recited the opening words of prayer, so familiar and so beloved to Muslims everywhere. Entrusting themselves to God Alone, purifying their souls, opening their hearts to the Words of God being recited so beautifully, the believers' eyes moistened from the staggering power and beauty of faith.

For the first time in a long time, both Mullah Khaled and Princess Zainab were equally oblivious to each other and at peace.

But not for long.


End file.
